The De Coverley Papers
J >>
Joseph Addison and Others >> The De Coverley Papers
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 _The_ KINGS TREASURIES
OF LITERATURE
GENERAL EDITOR
SIR A. T. QUILLER COUCH
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD
[Illustration: J. Addison.]
_THE_
DE COVERLEY
PAPERS
_FROM_
_'THE SPECTATOR'_
EDITED
_BY_
JOSEPH MEEK _M.A._
All rights reserved
by
J. M. DENT & SONS LTD
Aldine House . Bedford Street . London
Made in Great Britain
at
The Aldine Press . Letchworth . Herts
First published in this edition 1920
Last reprinted 1955
INTRODUCTION
No character in our literature, not even Mr. Pickwick, has more endeared
himself to successive generations of readers than Addison's Sir Roger de
Coverley: there are many figures in drama and fiction of whom we feel
that they are in a way personal friends of our own, that once introduced
to us they remain a permanent part of our little world. It is the abiding
glory of Dickens, it is one of Shakespeare's abiding glories, to have
created many such: but we look to find these characters in the novel or
the play: the essay by virtue of its limitations of space is unsuited for
character-studies, and even in the subject of our present reading the
difficulty of hunting the various Coverley Essays down in the great
number of _Spectator_ Papers is some small drawback. But here before the
birth of the modern English novel we have a full-length portrait of such
a character as we have described, in addition to a number of other more
sketchy but still convincing delineations of English types. We are
brought into the society of a fine old-fashioned country gentleman,
simple, generous, and upright, with just those touches of whimsicality
and those lovable faults which go straight to our hearts: and all so
charmingly described that these Essays have delighted all who have read
them since they first began to appear on the breakfast-tables of the
polite world in Queen Anne's day.
"Addison's" Sir Roger we have called him, and be sure that honest Dick
Steele, even if he drew the first outlines of the figure, would not bear
us a grudge for so doing. Whoever first thought of Sir Roger, and however
many little touches may have been added by other hands, he remains
Addison's creation: and furthermore it does not matter a snap of the
fingers whether any actual person served as the model from which the
picture was taken. Of all the bootless quests that literary criticism can
undertake, this search for "the original" is the least valuable. The
artist's mind is a crucible which transmutes and re-creates: to vary the
metaphor, the marble springs to life under the workman's hands: we can
almost see it happening in these Essays: and we know how often enough a
writer finds his own creation kicking over the traces, as it were, and
becoming almost independent of his volition. There is no original for Sir
Roger or Falstaff or Mr. Micawber: they may not have sprung Athena-like
fully armed out of the author's head, and they may have been suggested by
some one he had in mind. But once created they came into a full-blooded
life with personalities entirely of their own.
A vastly more useful quest, one in fact of absorbing interest, is the
attempt to follow the artist's method, to trace the devices which he
adopts to bring to our notice all those various traits by which we judge
of character. The prose writer has this much advantage over the
playwright, that he can represent his _dramatis personae_ in a greater
number of different situations, and furthermore can criticise them and
draw our special attention to what he wishes to have stressed: he can
even say that such and such thoughts and motives are in their minds. Not
so the dramatist: his space is limited and he is cribbed, cabined, and
confined by having to give a convincing imitation of real life, where we
cannot tell what is going on in the minds of even our most intimate
friends. Thus the audience is often left uncertain of the purport of what
it sees and hears: the ugly and inartistic convention of the aside must
be used very sparingly if the play is to ring true; and so it is that we
shall find voluminous discussions on the subject, for instance, of how
Shakespeare meant such and such a character to be interpreted. It stands
to reason that the character in fiction can to this same extent be more
artificial. It is a test of the self-control and artistic restraint of
the novelist if he can refrain from diving too deep into the unknown and
arrogating to himself an impossibly full knowledge of the mental
processes of other people. And now notice how Addison gives us just such
revelations of the old Knight's character as the observant spectator
would gather from friendly intercourse with him. We see Sir Roger at
home, ruling his household and the village with a genial if somewhat
autocratic sway: we see him in London, taking the cicerone who pilots him
round Westminster Abbey for a monument of wit and learning: and so on and
so forth. There is no need to catalogue these occasions: what we have
said should suffice to point out a very fruitful line of study which may
help the reader to a full appreciation of Addison's work. "Good wine
needs no bush," and the Coverley Essays are good wine if ever there was
such.
The study of the style is also of the greatest value. Addison lived at a
time when our modern English prose had recently found itself. We admire
the splendour of the Miltonic style, and lose ourselves in the rich
harmonies of Sir Thomas Browne's work; but after all prose is needed for
ordinary every-day jog-trot purposes and must be clear and
straightforward. It can still remain a very attractive instrument of
speech or writing, and in Addison's hands it fulfilled to perfection the
needs of the essay style. He avoids verbiage and excessive adornment, he
is content to tell what he sees or knows or thinks as simply as possible
(and even with a tendency towards the conversational), and he has an
inimitable feeling for just the right word, just the most elegantly
turned phrase and period. Do not imagine this sort of thing is the result
of a mere gift for style: true, it could not happen without that, but
neither can it happen without a great deal of careful thought, a
scrupulous choice, and balancing of word against word, phrase against
phrase. Because all this is done and because the result is so clear and
runs so smoothly, it requires an effort on our part to realise the great
amount of work involved: _Ars est celare artem_: and in such an essay as
that describing the picture gallery in Sir Roger's house we can see the
pictures in front of our eyes precisely because the description is so
clear-cut, so free from unnecessary decoration, and yet so picturesque
and attractive.
A very short acquaintance will enable the reader to appreciate Addison's
charming humour and sane grasp of character. The high moral tone of his
work, the common-sense and broad culture and literary insight which
caused the _Spectator_ to exert a profound influence over a dissolute
age, these can only be seen by a more extended reading of the Essays, and
those who are interested cannot do better than obtain some general
selection such as that of Arnold.
Biographical and historical details are somewhat outside the scope of the
present Essay. A short Chronological Table is appended, and the reader
cannot be too strongly recommended to study Johnson's Life of Addison,
which is one of the best of the Lives of the Poets, and in which the
literary criticism is in Johnson's best vein. And Thackeray's _Esmond_
contains some delightful passages introducing Richard Steele and his
entourage, with an interesting scene in Addison's lodgings. It is perhaps
as well to mention that the _Spectator_ grew out of Addison's
collaboration with Steele in a similar periodical entitled the _Tatler_.
There were several writers besides these two concerned in the
_Spectator_, notably Budgell. (The letters at the end of most of the
papers are signatures: C., L., I. and O. are the marks of Addison's work,
R. and T. of Steele's, and X. of Budgell's.) We have stories of Addison's
resentment of their tampering with his favourite character; it is even
said that he killed the Knight off in his annoyance at one paper which
represented him in an unfitting situation. We cannot judge of the truth
of such stories. In any case it was Addison who controlled the whole
tenor and policy of the paper, wisely steering as clear as possible of
politics, and thereby broadening his appeal and reaching a wider public,
and it was Addison's kindly and mellow criticism of life that informed
the whole work. His remaining literary productions, popular at the time,
have receded into the background: but the _Spectator_ will keep his name
alive as long as English literature survives.
* * * * *
(In this selection only those essays have been chosen which bear directly
on Sir Roger or the _Spectator_ Club: several have been omitted which
refer to him only _en passant_ or as a peg on which to hang some
disquisition, and also one other which is wholly out of keeping with Sir
Roger's character.)
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE
1672. Birth of Addison and Steele.
1697. Addison elected Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford.
1701, 3, 5, 22. Steele's Plays.
1702. Accession of Queen Anne.
1704. Addison's _Campaign_ (poem celebrating Blenheim).
1706. Addison's _Rosamond_ (opera).
1709-11. Steele's _Tatler_.
1711-12-14. The _Spectator_.
1713. Addison's _Cato_ (play).
1714. Accession of George I.
1717. Addison appointed Secretary of State.
1719. Death of Addison.
1729. Death of Steele.
THE DE COVERLEY PAPERS
NO. 1. THURSDAY, MARCH 1, 1710-11
_Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dart lucem
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat._
HOR. _Ars Poet._ ver. 143.
One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke;
The other out of smoke brings glorious light,
And (without raising expectation high)
Surprises us with dazzling miracles.
ROSCOMMON.
I have observed, that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure, until
he knows whether the writer of it be a black[1] or a fair man, of a mild
or choleric[2] disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars
of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of
an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I
design this paper and my next as prefatory discourses to my following
writings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that
are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compiling,
digesting[3], and correcting will fall to my share, I must do myself the
justice to open the work with my own history.
I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, according to the
tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges
and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that it is at present, and
has been delivered down from father to son whole and entire, without the
loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow, during the space of six
hundred years. There runs a story in the family, that before my birth my
mother dreamt that she was brought to bed of a judge: whether this might
proceed from a lawsuit which was then depending[4] in the family, or my
father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not
so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in my
future life, though that was the interpretation which the neighbourhood
put upon it. The gravity of my behaviour at my very first appearance in
the world, and all the time that I sucked, seemed to favour my mother's
dream: for, as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle before I was
two months old, and would not make use of my coral until they had taken
away the bells from it.
As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it remarkable, I
shall pass it over in silence. I find, that, during my nonage[5], I had
the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was always a favourite of my
schoolmaster, who used to say, that my parts[6] were solid, and would
wear well. I had not been long at the University, before I distinguished
myself by a most profound silence; for during the space of eight years,
excepting in the public exercises[7] of the college, I scarce uttered the
quantity of an hundred words; and indeed do not remember that I ever
spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I was in this
learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my studies, that
there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned or the modern
tongues, which I am not acquainted with.
Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into foreign
countries, and therefore left the University, with the character of an
odd unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would
but show it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all the
countries of Europe, in which there was anything new or strange to be
seen; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that having read the
controversies of some great men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I
made a voyage to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the measure of a
pyramid: and, as soon as I had set myself right in that particular,
returned to my native country with great satisfaction.
I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am frequently seen in
most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select
friends that know me; of whom my next paper shall give a more particular
account. There is no place of general resort, wherein I do not often make
my appearance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of
politicians at Will's[8], and listening with great attention to the
narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. Sometimes I
smoke a pipe at Child's[8], and, whilst I seem attentive to nothing but
the _Postman_[9], overhear the conversation of every table in the room. I
appear on Sunday nights at St. James's[8] coffee-house, and sometimes
join the little committee of politics in the inner room, as one who comes
there to hear and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the
Grecian[8], the Cocoa-Tree, and in the theatres both of Drury Lane and
the Hay-Market. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Exchange for
above these ten years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of
stock-jobbers at Jonathan's: in short, wherever I see a cluster of
people, I always mix with them, though I never open my lips but in my own
club.
Thus I live in the world rather as a spectator of mankind, than as one of
the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman,
soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical
part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a husband or a
father, and can discern the errors in the economy[10], business, and
diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them, as
standers-by discover blots[11], which are apt to escape those who are in
the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am resolved to
observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall
be forced to declare myself by the hostilities of either side. In short,
I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on, which is the
character I intend to preserve in this paper.
I have given the reader just so much of my history and character, as to
let him see I am not altogether unqualified for the business I have
undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall
insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the
meantime, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin
to blame my own taciturnity; and, since I have neither time nor
inclination to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am
resolved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, if possible,
before I die. I have been often told by my friends, that it is pity so
many useful discoveries which I have made should be in the possession of
a silent man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a sheet-full of
thoughts every morning, for the benefit of my contemporaries; and if I
can any way contribute to the diversion or improvement of the country in
which I live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the
secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not lived in vain.
There are three very material points which I have not spoken to[12] in
this paper; and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to
myself, at least for some time: I mean, an account of my name, my age,
and my lodgings. I must confess, I would gratify my reader in anything
that is reasonable; but as for these three particulars, though I am
sensible they might tend very much to the embellishment of my paper, I
cannot yet come to a resolution of communicating them to the public. They
would indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many
years, and expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities,
which have been always very disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain I
can suffer, is the being talked to, and being stared at. It is for this
reason likewise, that I keep my complexion[13] and dress as very great
secrets; though it is not impossible, but I may make discoveries[14] of
both in the progress of the work I have undertaken.
After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall, in to-morrow's
paper, give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in
this work; for, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid and
concerted (as all other matters of importance are) in a club. However, as
my friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a mind
to correspond with me, may direct their letters to the _Spectator_, at
Mr. Buckley's in Little Britain. For I must further acquaint the reader,
that, though our club meets only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have
appointed a committee to sit every night, for the inspection of all such
papers as may contribute to the advancement of the public weal.
C.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Black._ Dark.
[2] _Choleric._ Liable to anger.
[3] _Digesting._ Arranging methodically.
[4] _Depending._ Modern English _pending_.
[5] _Nonage._ Minority.
[6] _Parts._ Powers.
[7] _Public exercises._ Examinations for degrees at Oxford and Cambridge
formerly took the form of public debates.
[8] _Will's_, _Child's_, _St. James's_, _Grecian_. Coffee-houses; all
these, and the cocoa-houses too, tended to become the special haunts of
members of some particular party, profession, etc.; _e.g._, Will's was
literary, St. James's Whig.
[9] _Postman._ A weekly newspaper.
[10] _Economy._ Household management.
[11] _Blots._ Exposed pieces in backgammon.
[12] _Spoken to._ Referred to.
[13] _Complexion._ Countenance.
[14] _Discoveries._ Disclosures.
NO. 2. FRIDAY, MARCH 2
_Ast alii sex
Et plures uno conclamant ore._
JUV. _Sat._ vii. ver. 167.
Six more at least join their consenting voice.
The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of ancient
descent, a baronet, his name is Sir Roger de Coverley. His
great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance which is
called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted with
the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very
singular in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good
sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as he
thinks the world is in the wrong. However this humour creates him no
enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his being
unconfined to modes and forms, makes him but the readier and more capable
to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he lives in
Soho Square. It is said, he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was
crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him.
Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a Fine Gentleman,
had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege[15],
fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson[16]
in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. But being ill-used by
the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; and
though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he
grew careless of himself, and never dressed[17] afterwards. He continues
to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the
time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he tells us, has been
in and out twelve times since he first wore it. He is now in his
fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a good house both in
town and country; a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful
cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His
tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women
profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company: when he
comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all
the way upstairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is a justice
of the Quorum[18]; that he fills the chair at a quarter-session with
great abilities, and three months ago gained universal applause by
explaining a passage in the Game Act[19].
The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us, is another bachelor,
who is a member of the Inner Temple; a man of great probity, wit, and
understanding; but he has chosen his place of residence rather to obey
the direction of an old humoursome[20] father, than in pursuit of his own
inclinations. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, and is
the most learned of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle and
Longinus[21] are much better understood by him than Littleton or
Coke[22]. The father sends up every post questions relating to
marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in the neighbourhood; all which
questions he agrees with an attorney to answer and take care of in the
lump. He is studying the passions themselves, when he should be inquiring
into the debates among men which arise from them. He knows the argument
of each of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully[23], but not one case in
the reports of our own courts. No one ever took him for a fool, but none,
except his intimate friends, know he has a great deal of wit[24]. This
turn makes him at once both disinterested and agreeable: as few of his
thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit for
conversation. His taste of books is a little too just for the age he
lives in; he has read all, but approves of very few. His familiarity with
the customs, manners, actions, and writings of the ancients, makes him a
very delicate observer of what occurs to him in the present world. He is
an excellent critic, and the time of the play is his hour of business;
exactly at five he passes through New Inn, crosses through Russell Court,
and takes a turn at Will's until the play begins; he has his shoes rubbed
and his periwig powdered at the barber's as you go into the Rose[25]. It
is for the good of the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have
an ambition to please him.
The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, a merchant of
great eminence in the city of London. A person of indefatigable industry,
strong reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are noble and
generous, and (as every rich man has usually some sly way of jesting,
which would make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea
the British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in all its parts, and
will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion by
arms; for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will often
argue, that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should
gain from one nation; and if another, from another. I have heard him
prove, that diligence makes more lasting acquisitions than valour, and
that sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds in several
frugal maxims, amongst which the greatest favourite is, "A penny saved is
a penny got." A general trader of good sense is pleasanter company than a
general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural unaffected eloquence,
the perspicuity of his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would
in another man. He has made his fortunes himself; and says that England
may be richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself is
richer than other men; though, at the same time, I can say this of him,
that there is not a point in the compass but blows home a ship in which
he is an owner.
Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry, a gentleman of
great courage, good understanding, but invincible modesty. He is one of
those that deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting their
talents within the observation of such as should take notice of them. He
was some years a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in
several engagements, and at several sieges; but having a small estate of
his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of life
in which no man can rise suitably to his merit, who is not something of a
courtier, as well as a soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a
profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence
should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to this purpose, I
never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left
the world[26] because he was not fit for it. A strict honesty and an even
regular behaviour, are in themselves obstacles to him that must press
through crowds, who endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour of
a commander. He will however, in his way of talk, excuse generals, for
not disposing according to men's desert, or inquiring into it: For, says
he, that great man who has a mind to help me, has as many to break
through to come at me, as I have to come at him: Therefore he will
conclude, that the man who would make a figure, especially in a military
way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the
importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in his own
vindication[27]. He says it is a civil[28] cowardice to be backward in
asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow
in attacking when it is your duty. With this candour does the gentleman
speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through all his
conversation. The military part of his life has furnished him with many
adventures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable to the company;
for he is never overbearing, though accustomed to command men in the
utmost degree below him; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of
obeying men highly above him.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7